


Out From Under

by dracoqueen22



Series: Once Burned [4]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Cross-Factional Relationship, M/M, Post-Predacons Rising, Reconciliation, implied interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet goes searching and comes back with Starscream, something that's a bit of a surprise to both himself and the other Autobots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out From Under

Ratchet isn't sure why he's scouring the ruins of Cybertron looking for a Decepticon. There are so many reasons this is a bad idea, most of which have to do with the Decepticon in question. Their last meeting, outside the limits of war, had not gone well. He doesn't anticipate that this will go any better.   
  
Yet, here is he, headlights sweeping shattered buildings, ash-covered roadways, and night-clogged skies.   
  
Is it guilt that drives him? Or is there some purer emotion?   
  
Ratchet doesn't know. He's simply doing what he has to do, what his spark tells him must be done.   
  
Intel – aka Bumblebee's scouting – has put Starscream limping off in an easterly direction, so east Ratchet goes, toward what's left of Vos. Starscream has no base, no allies, and no faction and it's a miracle he escaped Predaking's special brand of vengeance. What he's searching for in the ruins of Vos, Ratchet doesn't know.   
  
Frag, he doesn't even know why he's looking for Starscream in the first place. Or why he cares.   
  
Starscream is not exactly the ideal choice for partners. He's selfish, manipulative, sneaky, and dangerous. He's more likely to stab Ratchet in the back than whisper sweet nothings.   
  
Their brief liaisons had been nothing but lust and conflict. They had tested Ratchet's faith, his honor, his morals, his ethics, his vows. Time and again, he had claimed hatred for Starscream, only to respond to every plea for help, and become drawn into the Seeker's web of seduction and half-truths.   
  
It was not, by any definition of the term, a relationship. And yet, Ratchet can not seem to let the past lie.   
  
It's a near-hopeless task. Cybertron is massive and Vos was one of it's largest city-states. The destruction is wide-spread, with many buildings indistinguishable, and far too many places to hide. Especially for Starscream, who is more than skilled at concealing himself.   
  
He continues to search, sensors sweeping the debris. Readings keep pinging back errors. Before long, he'll have to either turn back or ask headquarters for a ground bridge home.   
  
This search isn't sanctioned. Ratchet had mumbled some excuse about wanting to see Cybertron, see what changes had been wrought. Bulkhead is probably the only one who suspects what's really going on. With Optimus gone...  
  
Ratchet's spark aches.   
  
No, he's not ready to think about that loss yet.   
  
Ultra Magnus would not be pleased to know that Ratchet is out here looking for a Decepticon. They are not a military faction anymore, but they all still look to a leader for guidance. They've been fighting a war too long not to need a firm hand.   
  
Ratchet thinks, over time, that this thought-pattern will change. But for now, yes, they all look to Ultra Magnus, a mech much changed since his original arrival on Earth.   
  
Something registers on the edge of his last sensor sweep.   
  
Ratchet throttles back, slowing down.   
  
He should have known.   
  
The Vos Academy of Science. Where else would Starscream go but to an image of the past?   
  
Ratchet slips into root-mode, approaching the crumpled building. The famous spire is all that remains, pointing toward the sky, shorter now that most of the base had collapsed.  
  
There's a crunch, pedesteps over rubble.   
  
“What do you want?” The demand hisses out of the silence, filled with distaste and no small measure of loathing.   
  
Ratchet stills, careful to keep his motions nonthreatening. He can't see Starscream just yet, but he can feel the missile pointed his direction. There's enough here that Starscream can scrounge around to keep himself fully armed though not necessarily repaired.   
  
“I had thought it would be obvious,” Ratchet says, and he narrows his scanners, trying to find the Seeker in the gloom. “Isn't this the game we play?”   
  
Starscream steps out of the shadow of the spire, one wing dangling at a crooked angle, obviously dislocated. His painting is scratched down to the protoform in some places. He's limping, but one arm is pointed straight at Ratchet, missile primed to fire.   
  
“I didn't call for you, medic,” he snarls, optics bright and feral, uninjured compared to the dents and marks on his frame.   
  
“Yet, it's clear that you need me.” Ratchet lifts his hands, palms outward, showing that he is unarmed.   
  
Starscream must have walked here. There is no way he could have flown on his wing. Predaking had launched him far when he was through. It is a miracle he survived.   
  
Then again, Starscream has proven to be more than a little difficult to kill.   
  
Starscream growls at him. “I'd rather offline here then risk you adding a little surprise to my repairs.”   
  
Despite himself, Ratchet flinches. “If you prefer, I can ask Knock Out instead.”   
  
“I'm not that fragging desperate!” Starscream snaps, his one working wing flicking upward, his plating slicked down in agitation. “I don't want your pity, Autobot!”   
  
“Didn't you hear? The war's over,” Ratchet replies, not daring to move closer, but his scanners telling him all he needs to know. How low Starscream is on energon. How deep the injuries go. How little a chance the Seeker has out here on his own. “Faction lines don't exist anymore.”   
  
Starscream's gears grind in disgust. “Is that how you justify it to yourself now?” His arm trembles, missile wavering. “Forget it. I'm not going to help you assuage your guilt.”   
  
Guilt. Yes. Perhaps that is the impetus. There is certainly guilt. He betrayed the Autobots. Then he betrayed himself. And then he betrayed Starscream.   
  
Who is there left to betray?  
  
Ratchet cycles a ventilation, taking a step back. “If I apologized, would it do any good?”   
  
“An apology from an Autobot?” Starscream arches an orbital ridge, lipplates curled into a sneer. “That's worth nothing to me.” His optics flicker, the sort of glitch that indicates low energy levels.   
  
Frustration eats into Ratchet's field. “Frag it, Starscream. Let me help you! Don't offline out here for your pride!”   
  
Starscream's arm lowers. “Tell me what else I have left, Ratchet,” he hisses, and gestures to the ruins around him. “The Decepticons have been disbanded despite my efforts. Cybertron is a wasteland. A metallic beast treated me like a chew toy.” He limps forward, anger evident in the flick of his sole, functional wing. “All I have is my fragging pride!”   
  
His words ring in the silence, echoing off the destroyed buildings.   
  
Shame trickles like ice down Ratchet's backstrut. “I'm sorry,” he says, and shouldn't be so surprised that he does mean it.   
  
He's made a lot of mistakes. He's only a mech. He's not perfect. And this war has ruined the best of them. Is it no surprise that he's been ruined by it as well?   
  
Ratchet searches for something else to say, but there really is nothing. He can only apologize. The other offer has been made and it is Starscream's right to reject him.   
  
Some bridges, once burned, can not be rebuilt.   
  
He looks at Starscream again, aching to fix what's been broken, before he turns away.   
  
“You know where to find me,” Ratchet says, because the Autobots haven't exactly been subtle in their choice of where to begin rebuilding. “I promise that you will not be harmed should you seek refuge.”   
  
He shifts to root mode, eyes the long road home, and starts the drive. He should feel worried that he'd given Starscream his back, but there's a part of him that knows the Seeker won't shoot his aft.   
  
At least, he hopes so. Otherwise, that would be rather embarrassing to explain to everyone back at headquarters.   
  
The ground five feet in front of him explodes in a shower of debris and rust. Ratchet slams on his brakes, aft end swerving to avoid the pit in the road. He loses traction, tilts into a spin, and bursts out of alt-mode, landing on his pedes with a scrape of metal on metal.   
  
What th--  
  
Something crashes into him, knocking him to the ground, forcing his fans to stall. Ratchet's helm hits the ground, optics fritzing at the impact, and he groans, feeling a weight on his chassis.   
  
He groans, reboots his optics, and stares up a Starscream, one heeled pede braced on Ratchet's chestplate. The Seeker's field is a frenzied mix of anger and amusement and irritation.   
  
“Who the frag said you get to play the martyr?” Starscream snarls, his empty arm a hint to what had nearly struck Ratchet.   
  
Or perhaps the miss had been on purpose.   
  
Ratchet doesn't move, looking up at Starscream with apology in his optics. “What else was I supposed to do? I am sorry but I'm not going to beg for your forgiveness. We were in a fragging war for Primus' sake!”   
  
He winces as his comm pings him. He'd send out an automatic distress call at the missile explosion and now Bulkhead wants an explanation. The last thing Ratchet wants or needs is for backup to arrive and shoot first, ask questions later.   
  
\--I'm fine,-- Ratchet replies. --I tripped.--  
  
Starscream weight bears down on him, though it lacks pressure considering his slimmer size in comparison. “Your apology lacks sincerity. Didn't try that hard to convince me, did you?”  
  
Primus, the Seeker's moves are as changeable as ever!   
  
“What do you want from me?” Ratchet demands, hands closing into fists. “I apologized. I offered to repair you. I can do nothing else!”   
  
Starscream's pede slams down on his chestplate with a dull thunk. “You can tell me the truth!” he shouts, optics flashing, wing flicking up and out. “Why didn't you press the fragging button?”  
  
“Because it was wrong,” Ratchet grinds out, words torn from his vocalizer. “Because you deserved better than that indignity and because--” He cut off, locking the rest of his admission to the back of his processor.   
  
Starscream's helm tilts, his weight bearing down as he leans closer, field rising up and crashing down on Ratchet. “Finish it.”  
  
Ratchet reboots his vocalizer, draws in a ventilation that's mixed strongly with grit and rust flakes. “I didn't want to hurt you.”   
  
The confession sits heavy between them. Indignity itches at Ratchet's backstrut and he knows that he should be doing more than lying here, taking whatever Starscream gives him, but he'd been wrong. He never should have betrayed his own morals, no matter what excuse he'd given himself.   
  
In the end, he can only blame fear.   
  
Starscream straightens, lifting his pede off Ratchet's chestplate and taking a step back. Ratchet assumes it is permission to rise and rolls to his pedes, prodding gingerly at the dent on his chassis. Nothing has been damaged beneath, but there's no hiding the dent.   
  
He looks at Starscream, but the Seeker hasn't spoken. His field has retracted, giving no clue to what he must be thinking.   
  
“Will you let me at least fix your wing?” Ratchet asks.   
  
Wordless, Starscream turns and makes a gesture. Permission granted.   
  
Ratchet closes the distance between them, one hand resting gently on Starscream's back, the other scanning the wing. He was right. It is dislocated.   
  
“I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it will hurt,” Ratchet says, free hand firmly gripping the wing as his other braces against the joint.   
  
To his credit, Starscream doesn't tense, which would have made it more painful. Ratchet would offer a countdown, but Starscream would probably consider it patronizing, so he doesn't bother.   
  
A quick jerk, followed by a sharp intake, and the wing is locked back into place. Ratchet scans again, checking the integrity of the joint, ensuring that it hadn't cracked. He can feel Starscream's wing twitching under his hold, plating warm and so familiar.   
  
“Done,” Ratchet says, cycling a ventilation. He drops his hands, stepping back.   
  
“Thank you.” Starscream turns, sharp gaze assessing Ratchet. “Where would you have us go from here?”   
  
“Back to base and my medbay,” Ratchet replies honestly. “You need repairs, energon, and recharge.”   
  
A bark of laughter escapes the Seeker. He smirks. “And that's it?” He moves closer, tilting his helm. “You really are a coward, aren't you?”   
  
“I'm not sure what you want me to say.”   
  
Starscream places his hand on Ratchet's chestplate, right over the dent, his longest talon tapping between the door kibble. His plating tingles in response and Ratchet reluctantly admits, only to himself, that he is and has always been, attracted to Starscream.   
  
“Say that you want me to come back with you,” Starscream purrs, sliding even closer, directly into Ratchet's personal pace and field range. “Say that you want me to stay.”   
  
Ratchet's ventilations hitch. “So that you can turn me down? Tell me you'd never become an Autobot?”   
  
“I thought faction didn't matter anymore?” Starscream's talon continues to scrape Ratchet's armor, drawing curls of paint.   
  
“It doesn't,” Ratchet insists, but then, he's not trying to convince Ultra Magnus or Arcee to let Starscream join the ranks. He hasn't tried yet and he knows, that's going to be an uphill battle.   
  
Knock Out had been accepted, for the most part, with relatively little argument. The former second in command of the Decepticons? Ratchet doesn't hold out much hope.   
  
He sighs.   
  
“It doesn't,” Ratchet repeats. “But my opinion isn't the only one that matters. Am I supposed to believe that you'd come back to base with me, submit to whatever the others demand of you, and not put up a fuss?”   
  
Starscream laughs. “If you think I'm not going to complain, you've got another thing coming.” His tone darkens, optics cycling down as he steps closer, their frames bumping together. “What kind of existence do you think I'm going to have out here alone?”  
  
“So we're the lesser of two evils?” Ratchet's fingers twitch, resisting the urge to touch, haul Starscream against him, and make the Seeker writhe.   
  
“Yes.” Starscream's wings loom over him, his field teasing against Ratchet's. “And it will give you the chance to make up everything you owe me.”   
  
It's such a perfectly Starscream declaration to make that Ratchet's own lips twitch in amusement.   
  
“I can hardly argue with logic like that,” Ratchet says, and something within him eases, unclenching the tension that had haunted him for several weeks.   
  
He can only hope that his fellow Autobots will react favorably.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“That could have gone better,” Ratchet muses aloud, pacing the small room that serves as his quarters, adjacent to the massive space that houses his medbay.   
  
Compared to what he had in both their bases on Earth, this is a luxury suite. Ratchet's far from complaining given the circumstances.   
  
Besides, right now, this small space is a sanctuary.   
  
“It also could have gone worse,” Starscream suggests, lounging on the berth with such indolence Ratchet finds it hard to believe he'd been scrounging for survival just hours beforehand.   
  
He supposes the fact that Starscream is fully energized, repaired, and cleaned might have something to do with it. Starscream has always been known for embracing good favor when it comes his way.   
  
Ratchet shoots the Seeker a glare. “You weren't much of a help either.”   
  
Starscream rolls onto his ventrum, wings twitching behind him. “Wasn't trying to be.” Arms folded beneath his chassis, his legs kick into the air. “You extended the invitation. You have a guilty conscience. I'm trying to make the best of things.”   
  
Starscream is many things, Ratchet reminds himself, but modest, apologetic, and contrite are not any of them.   
  
Ratchet withholds a sigh and starts to pace again.   
  
Of all the Autobots, Arcee's reaction had been the most expected and the most aggressive. She'd tried to shoot Starscream on sight and when Ratchet had blocked her, she'd stormed off in a huff, claiming a sudden need to be on Earth.   
  
Ultra Magnus could not begrudge her that request.   
  
Wheeljack had offered suspicion. Bulkhead had not been surprised. Smokescreen was confused, but willing to accept Ratchet's assurance. Knock Out, of course, had drawled a challenge that Starscream would have accepted, had Ratchet not intercepted that as well.   
  
Bumblebee, still on Earth, had offered his opinion from afar, willing to give Starscream the benefit of the doubt because it was what Optimus would have wanted.   
  
Ultra Magnus, facial plates twitching in an attempt to keep himself under control, had expressed a desire to discuss it in the morning. In the meantime, he left Starscream under Ratchet's care.   
  
All in all, it could have gone a lot better. But as Starscream said, it also could have been worse. Arcee could have not missed with that first shot.   
  
“Will you stop pacing?” the impatient Seeker demands, though his amusement continues to grow at Ratchet's expense.   
  
“No.”   
  
“Not even if I asked nicely?”   
  
Ratchet huffs. “You don't know how to do nice,” he snaps, whipping around toward Starscream, only to stumble mid-whirl and nearly fall on his aft.   
  
Only Starscream would lie there with his fragging panels open! Only a Seeker, mercurial temperament and all.   
  
“What the frag do you think you're doing?” Ratchet demands, struggling to find his composure from where it's dropped beneath his rapidly whirring cooling fans.   
  
Starscream smirks, one talon flicking the panel over the port on his side, the metal snap-snapping with each flick. “Exactly what it looks like I'm doing. Don't tell me you haven't been thinking it.”   
  
A rumble rises up from Ratchet's engine. Slagging arrogant Seekers and their sleek plating. “I've had better things to think about!” he snarls, but his optics follow the thin drag of Starscream's free hand up the curve of his cockpit and across the sleek lines of his armor.   
  
“Better than me?” Starscream's grin widens, his optics darkening in shade.   
  
Ratchet stomps over to the berth, slamming his hands down on the edge of it, pinning the Seeker with a fierce glare. Words crowd on his vocalizer, emerging in a spurt of static. Sometimes, he can't believe Starscream's gall. The mech dances between loyalty to the Decepticons and to himself.   
  
Ratchet should, for all the reasons in the universe, hate Starscream. Hate everything the Seeker is and has done. He killed Cliffjumper! He's killed others. Would probably do so again if given half the opportunity.   
  
All Cybertronians have the capacity for change, Optimus had said to them and Ratchet wants to believe it but this is Starscream and maybe Ratchet is seeing what he wants to see. Trying to justify what can only be a senseless lust.   
  
Starscream, for his part, doesn't look the least bit startled by the rage directed at him. He's learned to cow that cowardice at some point. Or maybe he's reached the limit of it.   
  
“Let me guess,” he drawls, dragging himself upright, draping one arm over a drawn knee. “You're bothered by some sort of Autobot ethical quandary?”  
  
Ratchet's engine revs. “You, who have no morals, would not understand.” Heat crawls through his circuits as though confused by the rapid shift between lust and fury. He can't decide if he wants to slam his fist into Starscream's face, or drag the Seeker closer and bury his hands under Starscream's plating.   
  
If Starscream feels at all chastened, he doesn't show it. “What use are morals when it comes to empty tanks and the threat of a slow offlining?” Starscream makes a vague gesture with his free hand. “If you expect me to apologize for any of the choices I've made, you're asking the wrong Seeker.”   
  
“I don't expect anything from you,” Ratchet snaps.   
  
“Oh? Is that why you came looking for me then?” Starscream taps a long talon on Ratchet's chestplate, the ding-ding-ding echoing in the small confines of his quarters. “For no reason at all?”   
  
His frame heaves, pulling in faster ventilations to the same beat of his spark. Isn't it strange, how closely love and hate intertwine? Ratchet doesn't claim love for Starscream, but there's something there, something that keeps drawing him back even when logic dictates he should not.   
  
And yet, there are times when he really, really wants to put a blaster to Starscream's spark.   
  
It's moments like that where Ratchet thinks he might have an inkling of an understanding as to why Megatron could never completely abandon or destroy Starscream.   
  
“You are insufferable,” Ratchet says, his vocals pitched low. “I wish I knew why I can't just walk away.”   
  
Starscream's talon hooks on the upper edge of his chestplate, tugging him closer. “For the same reason I chose to go with you, I imagine,” he says, vocalizer utilizing a purr that's far removed from his irritating screech. “Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe you'll reform me into a law-abiding, squishy-loving Autobot.”   
  
Ratchet snorts, letting Starscream close the gap between them, anticipation coiling hot and heavy in his circuits. “Unicron will rise again before the likelihood of that happening.”   
  
“Are you trying to curse us all?” Starscream rolls his optics, faceplate close enough that he can brush the smooth line of his jaw against Ratchet's cheek spar, eliciting a snap of static. “I don't think Cybertron or any of us will survive a third battle against the Unmaker.”   
  
“Starscream,” Ratchet says, grabbing the Seeker's hips and jerking their frames together with a loud crash of metal on metal. “Shut up.”   
  
For once in his functioning, Starscream obeys and for that, Ratchet is grateful.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Without Optimus, there is no one to claim the final word. They've turned to Ultra Magnus for advice, but even he hesitates to outright lead them. Optimus' final words ring in their memory banks, but only Bumblebee seems willing to step up and speak out.   
  
Starscream's fate is to be decided by the most informal event Ratchet has ever witnessed in all of Autobot history.   
  
Arcee had optioned to run perimeter patrol, claiming she can't keep a clear helm when it comes to Starscream and Ratchet can't blame her.   
  
Wheeljack, uninterested in whatever political maneuverings occupy peace-time, has taken to monitoring the ground bridge controls and tinkering with some device. He's looped into the conversation thanks to the main comm, but he's not directly present.   
  
Still, Starscream is outnumbered six to one though one wouldn't guess it by looking at him. Starscream stands straight and tall, wings raised with pride and confidence. Not a trace of his past jitteriness can be found in his field, as though he's finally come to grips with himself.   
  
Execution is off the table, Ratchet knows this much, but imprisonment is not out of the question. There is always worse.   
  
They could choose to exile him.   
  
“I find it difficult to believe that we can trust you,” Ultra Magnus says, beginning the proceedings.   
  
Starscream huffs a ventilation. “What can I do?” he asks. “I have no army and no weapons but that on my frame. Would I destroy everything that we've rebuilt to rule over a planet that will then be uninhabited? What would that accomplish?”   
  
Bumblebee snorts. “Seems to me that's what Megatron wanted.”   
  
“You have no clue what Lord Megatron desired!” Starscream snarls, wings snapping upright. “Or me for that matter.”   
  
“Then why don't you tell us?” Smokescreen asks, less hostile and more curious, likely because if there's any Decepticon he truly loathes, it would be Knock Out. And since that mech is standing right next to Smokescreen, he sees no reason to revile Starscream.   
  
Starscream's gaze whips toward Smokescreen. “You wouldn't listen.”   
  
“On the contrary,” Ultra Magnus says, gesturing toward Starscream. “Smokescreen has asked. We are prepared to listen.”   
  
Ratchet waits, in silence, watching the indecision war across Starscream's features. The Seeker's wings are twitching, a testament to his growing agitation. Ratchet half-expects Starscream to light his thrusters, take to the air, and flee from sight.   
  
“Fine,” Starscream says, vocals taking on the familiar rasp, his wings slicking against his back. He sucks in a ventilation, and there's a pause, one where Ratchet thinks that what they might get this time is the absolute truth.   
  
“I want to be heard,” he says, and his tone is much softer than the sharpness it had carried before, and then softening further. “I want to be recognized.”   
  
“You want to be famous,” Bumblebee says.   
  
Starscream sneers, whipping a glare toward the former Scout. “Fame has nothing to do with it!”   
  
No, Ratchet realizes. No, it wouldn't. There is a difference between desiring to be recognized, and desiring fame and fortune and adulation.   
  
“So... what?” Bulkhead says, sounding confused. He scratches his helm. “You just want someone to pay attention to you?”   
  
Starscream sighs, wings drifting back downward. One hand scrubs down his faceplate. “I should have known better than to expect understanding from a bunch of Autobots.”   
  
Ratchet wonders if he should speak, if it would even matter. Everyone knows he's compromised at this point.   
  
“No,” Smokescreen says, slowly lifting his helm as though coming to a conclusion. “But no one wants to always be the rookie.”   
  
That, Ratchet thinks, is a sentiment anyone can understand.   
  
“Close enough,” Starscream says, shooting Smokescreen a look that could almost be taken as gratitude. He shifts his attention back to Ultra Magnus. “Give me a lab. Give me a purpose. That's all I ask.”   
  
“And the humans?” Bumblebee asks.   
  
A derisive noise erupts from Starscream's vocalizer. “I could not care less what happens to them. If I don't set another pede on Earth, I will find myself relieved.” Pure honesty rings in his tone.  
  
Silence descends with a heavy weight.   
  
“I think we have heard all that we need to hear,” Ultra Magnus says, unable to hide the discomfort in his expression. “Starscream, if you will leave us, we have much to discuss.”   
  
Starscream waves a dismissing hand. “Yes, I'm sure you do.”   
  
He casts a long look at each of them before making for the door, where Wheeljack is already waiting for him outside it. Arcee must have returned long enough to take over at the control center.   
  
“Don't make any decisions without me,” Wheeljack drawls as the doors slide shut on them both.   
  
“I thought he didn't care either way,” Smokescreen says, confusion making his doorwings twitch.   
  
Knock Out rolls his optics. “Maybe he thinks it won't be fair if he doesn't offer a vote.”   
  
“Will it?” Ratchet asks, speaking for the first time, and in effect, drawing all optics toward where he's been sitting in the corner. “Is there a single Autobot in this room who isn't thinking of the Smelting Pit first and forgiveness never?”   
  
More silence, but heavier this time, thick with contemplation.   
  
“It's Starscream, you know,” says Bulkhead, as though that's explanation enough. “It's almost like Megatron strode up in here asking for a truce.”  
  
Smokescreen scratches his helm. “He sort of did that already,” he points out, and ducks his helm when attention diverts his way. “I mean, he didn't ask for one, but disbanding the Decepticons and saying he doesn't want any more war? It's pretty much the same thing.”   
  
“Yes, but Megatron is not asking to share quarters with us,” Bumblebee says. “He's not asking for forgiveness.”   
  
“Neither is Starscream,” Bulkhead says with a roll of his shoulders. “He didn't apologize at all.”   
  
Bumblebee huffs a ventilation. “Which isn't helping his case.”   
  
“I didn't apologize either,” Knock Out says, shoulders hunching a bit further as though trying to make himself fade into the background.   
  
“It's not even about the apology,” Bumblebee retorts. “It's about whether or not Starscream is telling us the truth. The whole truth.”   
  
Knock Out shakes his helm. “Starscream's not stupid. Rude, but not stupid.” One hand plants on his hips, the other gesturing to the hallway beyond. “He knows how to weigh his options.”   
  
“What do you think he wants?” Smokescreen asks, arguably the least aggressive of all the Autobots present.   
  
Knock Out folds his arms over his chestplate, shrugging. “Exactly what he said.”   
  
Groans ripple through the gathered Autobots.   
  
Knock Out sighs, mouth flattening into a grim line. “It's like this,” he says, with a huff of reluctance. “Starscream wasn't actually a bad leader. But Megatron is, well, Megatron. It's hard to stand in that shadow and he's not one for applause.” His shoulders hunch further, as though trying to bury himself between his shoulder tires.   
  
“Yeah, well, if my second in command tried to kill me more than once, I'd be less inclined to applaud him, too,” Arcee comments from across the comm. Apparently, she's been listening in.   
  
“Can you really blame him?” Smokescreen asks, and then looks a lot like Knock Out when he cringes away from everyone's stare. “I mean, it's Megatron, you know. He's not really, uh, likeable.”   
  
Ultra Magnus sighs, pinching his nasal ridge. “This is getting us nowhere.”   
  
“Just put it to a vote and get it over with,” Wheeljack suggests from across the comm. “We're all gonna follow Optimus' example anyway.”   
  
“Jackie's got a point,” Bulkhead says. “I don't like Screamer anymore than the next Autobot, but if he's serious about cooperating, we should give him the chance.”   
  
“Oh, yes,” hisses Arcee. “Let's just give Starscream free run of our supplies and our home base. There's no way this could go wrong.”   
  
She's not present, but Ratchet can just imagine the loathing on her features.   
  
“Knock Out turned out all right,” Smokescreen says.   
  
“Knock Out wasn't second in command of the Decepticons!” Arcee snaps. “He isn't half the threat Starscream is.”   
  
Knock Out's shoulder tires twitch. “Actually,” he corrects with a raised finger. “When Megatron was out of commission, I was second in command.” He pauses with a nervous chuckle. “Not that it lasted long.”   
  
Ultra Magnus looks as though he wants to sink through the floor.   
  
“What, exactly, are we voting on?” Ratchet asks, done with being the silent observer.   
  
“Exile?” Bumblebee offers when no one else is eager to make a suggestion. “Or, allowing him to stay with certain restrictions.”   
  
Bulkhead shuffles his pedes. “Some votes are obvious.”   
  
“Doesn't make 'em any less necessary, Bulk,” says Wheeljack, sounding proud of himself. “I say let him try. We've got him outnumbered at least.”   
  
“Yes, we do at that,” Ultra Magnus agrees with a thoughtful tone. “Optimus Prime fully believed that all Cybertronians have the capacity for change. He gave his spark believing that. I would do him great dishonor by not following in his stead.” His helm dips in a firm nod. “I will allow Starscream's petition though not without some caveats.”   
  
Bumblebee crosses his arms, doorwings twitching. “Rules,” he says. “Guidelines. And a patrol officer. If he agrees to all that, then I'll deal with it.”   
  
Smokescreen nods. “I'm with Bee. Don't give him free rein. That's just stupid. But giving him a chance. Yeah, Optimus would have wanted that.”   
  
Bulkhead sighs. “I'm not going to watch out for him,” he says, optics sliding briefly to Ratchet, his field betraying his discomfort. “But I won't argue against him staying.”   
  
“My vote doesn't matter since I'm outnumbered,” Arcee says. “Just keep him far away from me and everyone will be happier.”   
  
There is a loud click as she cuts off her end of the comm, concluding her presence in their conversation.   
  
Bumblebee winces.   
  
“I don't know if my vote even matters, but if it did, I vote in favor of letting him stay, too,” says Knock Out with a roll of his shoulders. “Though don't expect him to be grateful or friendly because of it.”   
  
“I think that would be expecting too much,” Wheeljack offers with a dry tone. “At this point, I think we're all just hoping for 'non-combative' and 'polite.'”  
  
Ratchet rises to his pedes, drawing all attention his way. “Thank you,” he says, feeling more than a little awkward. “And I'm saying it because Starscream won't. He doesn't deserve this chance, but I'm grateful that you'll give it to him anyway. And if he frags it up, then I'll be first in line to toss him off-planet.”   
  
Agreement comes from his fellow Autobots, slowly and reluctantly, but it's there all the same. And Ratchet feels the tension ease from his cables, loosening the tight band around his spark.   
  
All that remains is to tell Starscream of his fate.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Wheeljack smirks as Ratchet approaches Starscream's door with a cube of energon in each hand.   
  
“Is one of those for me?” he asks, sliding aside so that Ratchet can access the door.   
  
“It is if you want it to be,” Ratchet replies, giving the former Wrecker a cool look.   
  
Wheeljack chuckles. “Nah. Just thought I'd ask.” He folds his arms, watching as Ratchet inputs the code to Starscream's door – they had reset them all after acquiring the Nemesis. “What is it about Screamer anyway?”   
  
The door slides open with a quiet hiss but Ratchet hesitates before entering, helm tilted. “I can honestly say that I don't know. Because if I did, all of this would be a lot easier.”   
  
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”   
  
Ratchet lifts an orbital ridge. “Oh?”   
  
Wheeljack flicks an optic, a wink-facsimile that Miko taught him. “Ask me again later and maybe I'll tell you about Deadlock.” He starts down the hallway, tossing a wave over his shoulder. “Though that's one story that doesn't have nearly the happy ending as yours.”   
  
Ratchet has no words for that. Fortunately, Wheeljack doesn't require a response, vanishing down the hallway faster than Ratchet can register the implications.   
  
Shaking his helm, Ratchet steps fully into Starscream's quarters, his actual quarters as they had given him back his own though not before sweeping it for potentially dangerous objects. Not that Starscream had any.   
  
“I see that Autobots are about as respectful of privacy as Decepticons are,” Starscream drawls as the door slides shut behind Ratchet.   
  
“Oh, my mistake,” Ratchet retorts, striding toward the Seeker who's perched on a chair, polishing the last bit of wax away. “I thought you might be underenergized, but since you don't need this energon, I'll just put it away.”   
  
Starscream hops up from the chair, snatching the cube from Ratchet's hand faster than he can cycle an optic. Frag but sometimes he forgets just how fast Starscream is.   
  
For his part, though, Ratchet tucks away his own cube. He might want it later, but not now. “You're welcome.”   
  
Starscream sneers, turning his back on Ratchet as he starts to consume the energon. His wings twitch, betraying his agitation. “I didn't ask.”   
  
“That's the funny thing about being a medic, you don't have to,” Ratchet retorts, and folds his arms, looking around the room. It's utterly spotless, as though Starscream filled the anxious hours with endless cleaning. “You've been busy.”   
  
“Stop chatting,” Starscream snaps, whirling back toward Ratchet. “Tell me what they decided.”   
  
Why does he want Starscream again? Sometimes, Ratchet has a hard time understanding himself.   
  
“You'll stay,” Ratchet says, taking the seat Starscream had abandoned. “Better the enemy you know then one you don't. Though I would keep my distance from Arcee if I were you.”   
  
Starscream's plating visibly shivers. “I would have done so without the warning.”  
  
“Thereby displaying more intelligence than some of your previous decisions,” Ratchet says with a wry grin. “And, lucky you, Bumblebee has volunteered to be your warden. You report to him every day, morning and night.”   
  
Starscream huffs a ventilation. “Morning and night,” he mocks, spinning completely toward Ratchet. “You sound like your squishies. We're on Cybertron now.”   
  
Ratchet slumps in his chair, propping his elbow on the arm and his helm on his knuckles. “You don't have to stay,” he reminds the Seeker.   
  
“You say that like I have other options!” Starscream hisses, agitation writ into every clamped piece of armor on his frame. “I am no more interested in offlining starved and alone on Cybertron than I was on Earth. So I will suffer whatever annoying Autobot rules you lay down if only to prevent that.”   
  
“Suffer?” Ratchet repeats, and tries not to let emotion leak into his vocals. “Should I leave then? So you can be a martyr in peace?”   
  
Starscream rolls his optics, saying with an exaggerated ex-vent, “Autobots. Must you always be so melodramatic?”  
  
“You're one to talk.”   
  
“My theatrics always serve a purpose,” Starscream declares and promptly invites himself into Ratchet's lap as though he has every right to perch there. “Yours, on the other hand, are an expression of self-inflicted guilt.”   
  
Ratchet shifts his weight to accommodate the addition of Starscream's. “Your seduction technique could use some work.”   
  
“Was I not blatant?” Starscream leans closer, heated ex-vents ghosting over Ratchet's plating. “Allow me to express my gratitude, Ratchet. Is that clear enough for you?”   
  
Ratchet bites back a sigh and rests his hands on Starscream's slim waist, feeling the flex of tiny plates beneath his thumbs. “Nothing's going to be simple with you, is it?”   
  
“You can't say I didn't warn you,” Starscream smirks, though his field nudges at Ratchet's, a mix of amusement and desire. “What you see is what you get.”   
  
Never has a statement been more true, Ratchet thinks. Starscream is a mech with many faults, all of them obvious. So Ratchet has no one but himself to blame that he's falling helm over pedes for the querulous Seeker.   
  
“And apparently,” Starscream continues, hands sliding up Ratchet's chestplate. “You like what you see.”   
  
“Starscream, shut up.”   
  
The Seeker outright laughs. “Is that going to be your standard retort from now on?”   
  
“Only so long as it keeps working,” Ratchet says and sets out to silence Starscream the best way he knows how.   
  
It's not perfect. It's not what Ratchet would have imagined for himself thousands of years ago, but it's something. What that is remains to be seen and he supposes, he has another several years to find out.   
  
That is, if he doesn't toss Starscream off the Nemesis first.   
  


****


End file.
